


Seven Ways to Woo a Man

by themazeballet



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-03
Updated: 2018-01-03
Packaged: 2019-02-27 20:55:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13256442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themazeballet/pseuds/themazeballet
Summary: written for the first round ofdream_exchangeforred_rahl. originally postedhere.





	Seven Ways to Woo a Man

There it sat on Eames's pillow. A first edition of The Hobbit, a book he had loved as a child. He picked it up gently, turning it over in his hands and running his finger down the spine. It was in perfect condition with an embossed leather spine and gold gilt pages. He sat on the edge of the bed and opened the front; there was no inscription and no indication from whom it had come. He smiled and closed the book, putting it back on his bedside table. He would read it later, recalling the deep voice of his father and the way he had changed his voice with each character. Eames had complained each night when his father stopped at the end of the chapter, begging for him to continue.

As he sat and contemplated who could have given him such a gift, his phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out of his pocket and answered it without looking who it was. "Eames."

"Hello Mister Eames." It was Arthur. Arthur only ever called when he had a job, and only because Cobb had unofficially-officially retired. "You're still in London?"

"Well I am still coasting on the bit of goodness from the last job, haven't had a reason to leave my lovely, lonely flat."

"I see. Well, if you feel like making a little more money, come to the Savoy. Room 214, at five thirty."

"Room 214 is a senior suite, Arthur. Are you insinuating something?"

"Only in your dreams, Mister Eames." Arthur ended the call without a goodbye.

"That can be arranged," Eames replied to the air.

The Savoy on the Strand in central London was one of the most posh hotels in the city, with stunning late 19th century architecture. Part of it was underground, which was exciting and romantic if one didn't think about the fact that it was under the Thames, not the most romantic river in the world.

Eames actually deigned to put on a proper suit instead of the jeans and old shirt he had been wearing in his flat. Arthur would be proud. If Arthur actually noticed anything about him anymore. Such was the bad luck of Eames's pining.

He walked past the doorman, who gave him a warm, "Good afternoon, sir." Eames smiled at the man, and walked into the open, stain glass, opulent reception area. The concierge greeted him as well, and added, "May I help you?"

"No, thank you, I'm just meeting a friend for a couple drinks," Eames replied, pretending to make his way to the bar and then shifting to the lift, making his way to the upper floor and the senior suite. Arthur, clad in grey pinstripes, let him in.

The room was immense, and had a stunning view of Central London, lit in the late afternoon light. Even the Thames looked good from this vantage point. Everything was impeccable, and Eames spied Arthur's travelling bag and the silver suitcase that held the PASIV near the desk. Arthur went back to sit at the sofa, gesturing for Eames to take a seat. Eames sat down right next to him. He didn't believe in personal space.

"No champagne?" Eames chided as he sat down, picking up the sparkling mineral water and pouring himself a glass. "What sort of meeting is this?"

"A job meeting," Arthur muttered, rolling his eyes. He pushed over a file. "Zachariah Miller, just a banker here in London, but he's been doing some under-handed deals with some hedge fund in the United States."

"Oh…is this official US government work? You're working with a foreign national here, are you sure your bosses back in Washington won't get their little knickers in a twist?"

"We can't find a forger as good as you," Arthur said simply. "It isn't exactly official government work, they've hired me as a consultant so I have a little more lee-way in who I hire."

Eames just murmured, still looking over the file. "Oh, well." He reached out for a cookie, munching on it. "He has a mistress." He looked over the pictures. "A red-head who works at Harrods." He smiled. "I always like playing red-heads." He looked up at Arthur. "All right, so, how much and how long have we got?"

Sometimes, Eames could be a professional. He did it mostly to annoy Arthur, who never knew when he would get professional Eames or annoying little shit Eames.

"Five hundred thousand for the both of us. Dollars. We have a month before he goes on vacation in Thailand, where we could lose him."

Eames did the conversion in his head. Not a bad sum for what seemed to be an easy job. "Mmm, I think I can make some good observations in a couple of weeks." He looked over the file again, noting down details on the red-headed mistress. "You already have a team assembled?"

"Yes, but all Americans, straight from the Academy." Arthur's voice didn't hide exactly what he thought about the Academy. "They're competent, though. There are a couple forgers coming through the system, but…"

"Darling, I'm the best," Eames said without looking up. "And if you're going to keep stroking my ego you're going to have to buy me dinner first."

\---

Eames shrugged on his dark overcoat; it had gotten a bit chilly and Eames would be outside for quite a while doing observations on the mistress, whose name was Beverly Dawson, an Australian transplant. He looked in his mirror, and paused.

He touched his lapel; on it was a golden rose, a pin. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. His mother had had one almost exactly like it; six blooming petals and three thorns on the stem. She had worn it everyday on her own lapel, on every blouse. It had been a gift for her wedding day, and she said it had brought her luck, and so never took it off. They had buried her with it, when she had died. Five years ago, it was now, and seeing the pin almost made Eames forget himself.

He didn't know how it had gotten there, but it didn't matter. He took it off the overcoat and put it on his suit jacket. Perhaps it would bring him luck as well.

Eames left his flat, sending Arthur a quick text. reconissance mission. meet up at the savoy bar later?

The reply was rude, like Arthur: Only if you spell reconnaissance correctly.

Eames just rolled his eyes. He made his way to Strawberry Fields, where Beverly would be going for a hen party. Eames had been watching her at work, and had nearly gotten most of her mannerisms down, but he obviously had to do more observations, like how she danced and what she drank.

He knew that she had an egg salad sandwich and a thermos of cold tea for lunch daily, and that she wore black seamed hose and Chanel No 5. He even got a glimpse of her (or maybe Zachariah's) preferred underwear when she had gone shopping. Actually, apart from being a visually stunning woman, Beverly was quite a boring person.

She wore her makeup differently for work and when she was going to meet Zachariah, and Eames shuddered to remember how much it had cost him to get a reservation at Shekky's to watch them together. He hoped Arthur was doing more research on their mark, or else he was going to have to dip into his savings.

Strawberry Fields was named for the Beatle's song, but it really didn't have anything to do with the Beatles. It was a three story club, with purple lighting and smoky glass bars. Hen parties loved the club, and there were always plenty of beautiful people there. Eames wasn't overdressed, but he did look much richer than most anyone in the club, owing to his perfectly tailored dark suit. Arthur was rubbing off on him, and not in ways he really wanted.

He watched the girls from a seat as they danced together on the top story dance floor. He ordered a whiskey, neat, and watched as the girls rocked their hips badly to the music and twirled around in their very short skirts and tight tops; the bride-to-be wore a little tiara and a button proclaiming her to be a 'Future Mrs'.

Eames might forge women, but he would never understand them.

He followed them from club to club, even getting pulled into dancing by another hen party entirely at another club as they exclaimed how fit he was and how full and gorgeous his lips were. Eames was not a modest man, but women, even drunk women, didn't usually fawn over him so much. He let himself be kissed and groped, and had a few numbers slipped into his pocket or typed into his phone, and he nearly lost his mark when some woman cornered him near the toilets. He kissed her quickly and wished her all the best, escaping to follow Beverly and her hen party.

His phone buzzed, he snapped it open. It's late, just come straight to the suite when you're done with your mission.

Who wrote text messages with proper spelling and punctuation? Eames certainly didn't. He didn't send a reply, just continued on his mission until they all piled into taxis to go to their flats, and Eames got his own taxi to the Savoy.

He knocked on the door and Arthur let him in. Eames tossed his overcoat on the sofa and plopped down, sighing. "I was ambushed," he stated, rubbing his face.

"Are you okay? Did they take anything?" Arthur handed Eames a cup of tea, and Eames wrapped his fingers around the warmth.

"My innocence," Eames mumbled. "No, it's just…following a gaggle of women is difficult. I ended up with a few numbers and quite a few gropes. Traumatising."

"I'm sure you'll be okay," Arthur replied, yawning and covering his mouth. He was only half out of his suit, his sleeves rolled up. Eames let his eyes wander over Arthur's forearms, looking for ill-advised tattoos or something that let Eames imagine that Arthur wasn't made fully formed in a laboratory somewhere.

Eames relayed the information he had learned, and Arthur did the same. They sat very close, and Eames let his hand slip onto Arthur's knee. Arthur didn't seem to notice, or if he did, he didn't say anything. Small victories, Eames thought.

"It's late, and there's another bed in the suite if you don't feel like going all the way back to your apartment." Arthur pulled his leg away and stood up, stretching.

Eames leered. "Is that an invitation?"

Arthur looked over his shoulder. "Not in this lifetime."

Eames didn't stay.

\---

The Temne people of Sierra Leone had very distinctive masks, with small eyes and very small mouths in an otherwise huge head. It was supposed to represent the humility of man, or something. Eames just liked the look of them, even though he owned none of them.

Or at least, that was true until Eames woke up and stumbled into his living room. Staring down at him from the wall was a jackal, painted red with black rings around the eyes. It was very traditional, and Eames was loathe to touch it. It was beautiful, and most definitely authentic. He crossed his arms in front of his chest.

It had been some years since Eames had been in the military, but the jackal staring down at him almost reversed him back into Freetown, Sierra Leone. He could almost taste the humid air. It had been his last mission in the army, to suppress the civil war in the country. Operation Palliser, which was ostensibly supposed to have been a peace keeping mission, but who can keep the peace with a gun strapped to one's body?

They had been hailed as heroes by some, but spit upon by others. Eames had learned Temne and befriended a family, only for them to have to flee. He reached out to feel the carving of the jackal, and swallowed. He had earned rank during the operation, and retired a Captain. He still remembered…would always remember.

The jackal was beautiful, and heartbreaking. He went to shower and dress, pinning the lapel pin to his shirt. He wasn't wearing a suit, instead an outrageous paisley shirt and a pair of jeans, because he was tired of dressing up. The doorman at the Savoy thought he was a guest anyway, and since Arthur had given him a key, he supposed he was.

He didn't announce himself, just got comfortable on the king-sized bed that Arthur slept in all on his lonesome, not for any lack of trying on Eames's part. The en-suite bathroom was a semi-open affair, with frosted glass and a partially mirrored wall.

Shockingly, from Eames's vantage point, he could see that Arthur preferred boxers. They were just as staid as his outerwear, except they were dark red. So he did know what colour was. Eames watched as Arthur sat and pulled on his socks and sock garters, standing up and taking his trousers off the wooden hanger and sliding them on. They hung perfectly, just a little on the tight side, because Eames knew that Arthur read men's fashion magazines obsessively, and was always fashionable. And tighter was in this season. They were flat-fronted, and Arthur pushed his hands in his pockets, checking the lay of his trousers. He pulled on an under-shirt, and Eames mourned all the glorious pale skin that Arthur covered.

Eames marvelled at how meticulous Arthur was in getting dressed, checking each bit of clothing for loose strings or buttons, not that there ever were any. Arthur pulled on the white striped shirt and left it unbuttoned while he contemplated a tie, picking a plum silk. He buttoned his shirt and tucked it in carefully, unbuttoning his trousers for a moment to smooth the shirt down. Eames took a deep breath. This should not have been erotic. Arthur was getting dressed! Completely and utterly covered, but Eames felt lucky even just to watch this private moment. He also felt a little guilty, like he was invading something sacred, but that didn't last long.

Arthur tied his tie into a full Windsor, always a proper and respectable choice, and then slipped on his waistcoat. It was a six button, and he kept the top and bottom buttons unbuttoned, which Eames was sure would be the only thing unbuttoned about Arthur.

He smoothed down his collar and then slipped on the jacket, checking his hair in the mirror, taking a comb to it even though it didn't need it. The result was devastatingly sexy, and Eames swallowed. He felt warm.

Arthur finally looked up, and caught Eames's eyes.

Eames pushed himself off the bed and left the suite, hurrying down the stairs.

\---

Eames woke up from a fairly awful dream. He hated that he still dreamed. He knew a lot of people, including Arthur, who didn't still have to contend with any dream that they themselves didn't construct for a purpose. He sat up in bed, rubbing his arms and face and reaching out for his water bottle, taking a swig. He turned on the light and squinted, letting his eyes get acquainted to the sudden rush of light. He reached out for The Hobbit to read a few pages, but his eyes fell upon a small black velvet box on his bedside table. He picked it up and opened it.

It was a solid-looking gold ring with a black stone inset in it. The stone was carved, and Eames had to squint, but then he smiled. It was his family's crest. His family was just middle class, from south London, but his grandfather had taken him to the village Hem in Montgomery to show him the birthplace of their familial line. They could pretend at some nobility, even though they could never claim a title.

He tried the ring on his each finger slowly. It fit on his right middle finger. He flexed his finger and kept looking.

The book, the pin, the mask and now the ring? Eames wondered who knew all this about him, how they would know. It wasn't as if he kept a journal or even talked about this with anyone. He had truly never mentioned any of his past with anyone. Although, anyone who traipsed in his brain could see projections of his mother, maybe even his grandfather.

Who would break into his flat just to give him gifts? Far from being disturbed, he felt a little flattered. The person obviously knew him well enough to know he would appreciate each one. He looked at the ring. Well-researched and thoughtful gifts; in Eames's wildest imaginings, he could suppose the gifts came from Arthur.

"Not even in your dreams, mate," he muttered, picking up The Hobbit to read himself back to sleep.

It was the day of the dress rehearsal, where Eames met the rest of the team. He had already met the architect to discuss the flat where Zachariah and Beverly met twice a week, a thin man with short cropped hair named Andrew. There was the bio-chemist, a very tall black man named Jeremy and the woman who would control the PASIV and the kick, a really quiet brunette named Kate. Eames did not learn last names. Only he, Arthur and Andrew would go into the first level dream, Andrew because it was his dream, Arthur to find the information, and Eames to provide the excellent distraction. Andrew would have to fight off the few projections Zachariah would undoubtedly have, but since he was not a trained person, it wouldn't be that hard for Andrew to fend off a few overly curious projections.

It was a two level dream, but the second level would only be in case of emergencies. Kate's dream was Zachariah's office. Eames had never had a chance to go and case the area as Beverly obviously never went to Zachariah's office, but Arthur assured him it was all correct. They ran through it; Eames chose to forge one of Zachariah's clients, a man he had actually gone to university with. Arthur told him to be less Gordon Gecko, but that was the only criticism. Once again, Eames was surprised.

Before they began on the upper level dream, Eames practiced some movements in the mirror. They looked slightly ridiculous on his masculine body, but he knew he was just refining them before he would take on Beverly's skin.

"That's a nice ring," Arthur said as they sat and discussed last minute additions and addendums to the plan. Eames looked down at the ring, then raised an eyebrow at Arthur.

"Hmm, yeah, it was on my bedside table this morning." He touched the lapel pin. "I must have an admirer or something, I've been getting some lovely gifts the past fortnight."

"Must be a very persistent admirer."

Arthur's face was a study in neutrality, but his lips quirked gently. Eames wanted to ask what he knew, but there were too many people around.

They had chosen the flat where Zachariah and Beverly met, even though that meant it could veer into what Eames called a "very awkward situation". He could handle having sex in dreams, because they were just dreams, but the last time that situation arose, he nearly dropped the forgery and ruined the whole dream. This time, he was a little less green and a little more sure of himself. If Zachariah got randy, then Eames would be prepared for him.

The PASIV worked by shortening sleep to just the REM portion, where dreams actually came, and the subconscious was at its most vulnerable. The dream flat looked exactly like the real one—Eames had gotten in pretending to be a maintenance man on a day the couple would not be in, and took pictures of every conceivable surface that he could. He was impressed by Andrew's work.

The practice run would involve finding a hidden red ball in various safes. Andrew, the dreamer, would hide a safe in a different place in the flat, and Arthur would be timed on how fast he could extract the red ball. Eames would try and keep Arthur from finding the safe. They would be given fifteen minutes of dream time for each attempt.

Eames thought he could do it better as himself, since he could drive Arthur to distraction, but he had to practice being Beverly.

And so, they arrived in the flat and Eames stood in front of the mirror. If anyone asked, he couldn't explain how he did it, but suddenly he was Beverly in her Tuesday outfit, a black skirt and a deep green blouse, open a bit, with those black seamed hose and black stilettos. He tossed his purse on the table in the foyer and flicked his hair over his shoulder. "Arthur, love? Are you here?"

"In the…" Arthur didn't finish his sentence when Beverly stepped into the lounge. "Well, not bad, Eames."

"Hmm, who's Eames?" Eames smiled and blinked. "What are you looking for?"

"Uhm, I thought I left something here the last time we were here…"

Eames walked away; he could feel Arthur's eyes on him. "I'm absolutely knackered, let's go straight to bed, okay?"

Arthur didn't answer as Eames went to get something to drink. "Love?"

"Yeah, bed sounds great," Arthur called from wherever he was. Arthur was fast and efficient, like he was in all areas of his life.

"Good, because I'm wearing that lingerie you like so much!"

There was a crash, and Eames laughed. He had no idea Arthur was into red-heads. He followed the crash and found Arthur in Zachariah's office, pens scattered on the floor from the pen cup that Arthur had pushed off the desk. He looked wide-eyed at Eames. "You're good," he muttered.

Eames closed in on Arthur, cupping his face. "Mmm, you don't have a clue." They were breathing each other's air, this close, and Arthur touched Eames's side, rubbing the soft blouse. He stepped a bit closer, and their bodies were flush, but they were still not kissing. Arthur looked beyond Eames's shoulder, and then back to him, licking his lips.

"Hold on a second, I found what I was looking for." He let go of Eames and walked to a painting on the wall, pushing it to the side and opening the safe triumphantly. He opened the window and waved down at Andrew.

Andrew called up, "Seven minutes!" Arthur turned to look at Eames, who had stopped being Beverly.

"That is an excellent forgery, Eames."

"You like red-heads?"

Arthur had the decency to look sheepish. "Well, it's…no, not really. You just did a really good job. Beverly's pretty hot."

"So you were about to kiss her?"

Arthur looked at Eames. "Don't be so damn dense."

They didn't speak, not even after the kick and they were awake again.

\---

Eames picked up the envelope that had been slipped under his door, slitting it open with a finger. He pulled out two tickets and stared at them, mouthing the words. Macbeth and a late showing, at the Vic. He frowned. He didn't really have any friends to take with him. He thought idly of that girl, Jane something, who he had dated for about five minutes. They had never properly broken it off, but Eames didn't think taking her to see a Shakespearean tragedy would be anyway to rekindle a fling.

So, he called the only person he knew that would be interested in Shakespeare, and tragedies. "Arthur, what are your plans for this evening?"

"Dinner, a shower, a bad movie on television," Arthur answered. "I can't always be exciting."

"Arthur, you are always exciting," Eames said, lazily flirting. "Come to see that Scottish play with me. Tonight, seven o'clock, at the Vic. And we can have dinner after."

"You mean…Macbeth?" There was a pause at the other end of the line, and Eames pulled his phone away to see if they were still connected. "Okay, that sounds good, actually."

"Good, call down to the concierge, his name is Ryan, and hire a car. Oh, and reservations for eleven at La Maison Bleu, the maitre d' is Theo, he won't mind the late reservation."

"You do know your way around London town, don't you, Eames?"

"It's necessary to be so well-versed." Eames played smooth until he hung up the phone, and pumped his arm in excitement, going straight to find something that wasn't horrifyingly bad to wear.

The play was excellent, a very avant-garde telling of the play, more bent to the psychological nature of madness. Eames was enthralled, barely noticing Arthur's hand on his arm the entire play.

In fact, Arthur's hand was on his arm as they were driven to the restaurant. "Macbeth, huh?"

"Well, I'm not a huge theatre fan or anything, but…well, I was a little into drama when I was in school, you see. Actually, I played Banquo in a production at my university."

"Is that why you became a forger? It seems like deception would be easy for someone in drama…"

Eames shrugged. "There are so many reasons I decided to go into deception," he replied, looking out the window. "Do you have a favourite play?"

"Not really," Arthur replied. "I enjoy reading them. I'm more a fan of opera, though."

"Perish the thought," Eames muttered. "Thank you again for coming with me."

"I couldn't ever pass up the chance to see Shakespeare in London. It wouldn't be right."

"Well, my admirer left the tickets for me this morning. I couldn't think of anyone else who would like to see a tragedy with me." Eames grinned at Arthur, and winked.

Arthur just smiled. "Your admirer has good taste." He slid his hand down Eames's arm, and touched the signet ring.

They arrived at the restaurant in a companionable silence, and Eames tipped their driver as Arthur slipped out.

Eames watched him walk into the restaurant, and whispered, "Stars, hide your fires. Let not light see my black and deep desires."

\---

Eames picked up the frame, and stared at the picture in it. It was sitting innocently on his coffee table when he came out of his shower. He dripped all over his hardwood floors, towel tight around his waist, as he stared at the photograph.

Eames was six years old, in shorts and a rugby jumper that was entirely too large for him, sitting on a stump. Next to him, seated primly, with tongue lolled out of his mouth and grinning a huge dog grin, was Eames's first dog, a golden retriever named Skip to my Lou. Six year old Eames had a hand on the dog's neck, and looked happier than Eames could ever remember being.

Skip was young in that picture as well, probably a year, and had lived to be thirteen. Eames was barely nineteen when he died, and it had devastated him then. But he couldn't think of that now, just how amazingly loyal and kind and free-spirited Skip had been, and how he rarely left Eames's side, not for a moment. That dog had made him happier than any human had done. He touched the glass and sighed, putting the picture down and going to dry himself off and get dressed.

He looked at the picture one last time before leaving, and he couldn't stop the smile on his face, even when he met with the team. It was the day of the extraction, and they were all gathered to go over any last minute details. There weren't many, and they mostly spent the time cracking jokes or telling stories of past extractions.

"What's with the smile?" Arthur asked as they finished divvying up the last of the responsibilities.

"My very persistent admirer sent me a photo I haven't seen in a very long while, and it's made my day a little brighter."

Arthur just nodded as they made their way to their hired car.

"I just wish I knew who it was," Eames continued as they drove to Zachariah's office. Arthur was to pretend to be a client, and Eames and Andrew would be his lawyers. Jeremy had given Arthur a vial of the sedative to put into Zachariah's tea, which they had paid his secretary to bring in at a certain time, whereupon they would bring in Kate and the extraction would happen.

"I'm sure you'll find out who it is sooner or later," Arthur replied, adjusting his watch and nodding. "Probably sooner."

Eames stared at the side of Arthur's face, wondering what he knew, who he was protecting. But, as always, Arthur's poker face was perfect.

They were directly on time for their appointment, and Kate sat outside, picking up a magazine. "Mister Miller will see you now," the secretary stated, and Arthur and the rest of them walked in.

Eames could not make heads nor tails of what Arthur was discussing with Miller, but Arthur hit his buzzwords with all the practiced ease of a Wall Street mogul. Eames pretended to take notes, but was instead sketching the scene in front of him, Arthur leaned forward and Miller nodding and agreeing.

"The problem is the over-inflation of the blue chip futures," Arthur continued. "America is in debt all over the world, I'm not really seeing how this fund is going to help out my company."

"Mister Matheson," Zachariah soothed. "This fund is backed by Euros, which as we've previously discussed are on a stronger path, regardless of this ridiculous slump we find ourselves in."

Eames and Andrew glanced at each other, and Andrew shrugged a shoulder.

There was a tentative knock at the door, and Zachariah said, "Ah, that would be Sarah with the tea. Come in, please."

Sarah came in and set the tea service down on his desk, slipping the sedative into Zachariah's tea as she stirred in his requisite teaspoon of sugar. When she turned around, she winked at Arthur before walking out.

The four of them drank, and three of them watched as Zachariah slumped forward. The game was afoot, and Kate zoomed inside the office, closing and locking the door and setting up the PASIV. "Good luck," Arthur directed at Eames.

"Luck has nothing to do with it, darling," Eames muttered, and then went under.

Everything was as it was, except one problem: the projection Beverly was already there, waiting in the living room. Eames sighed and pulled a gun out of his purse. He clamped a hand over Beverly's mouth, and she struggled mightily before he dispatched her and stuffed her in a closet, hoping Zachariah wouldn't open that closet. If he did his job properly, Miller wouldn't even notice the damn thing.

"Hello love," he purred when Zachariah opened the door, going straight for him and helping him out of his coat. "You must be exhausted," he whispered in Zachariah's ear, and Zachariah nodded helplessly, hauling Eames close and fairly devouring him in a kiss. Eames sunk his fingers in Zachariah's hair as Arthur just slipped into the door behind the two of them. He actually stood to watch the spectacle before Eames pointed down the hallway, pulling Zachariah to the sofa and busying himself with the task of being the hot mistress, muttering all sorts of dirty promises. It was that kind of dream, Eames was beginning to see, but maybe he wouldn't have to pay out before Arthur found the documents he was looking for.

Arthur's best time was six minutes, his worst was ten and a half. They had timed for eight, but in eight dream minutes, a lot could happen. And was happening, as Zachariah was unbuttoning Eames's blouse and exclaiming about the bra she had chosen, one which Eames had seen Beverly buy.

Arthur came back in four minutes, and he watched the mirror above the sofa, where he could see Eames looking straight back at him. Eames kept Zachariah's head down easily, fingers still in his hair.

Eames fished his gun out of his purse as Zachariah pushed up his skirt, shooting himself before the scene could get anymore tawdry.

Arthur stared at Eames for a long moment when they both came back. "What if it had taken me longer?"

"Then you would have been witness to quite a show." Eames got up and straightened out his jacket. "Good evening."

He did not ride back with the team, nor did he answer any of Arthur's phone calls or text messages.

\---

The key was attached to a replica of The Empire State building. The ticket was one way, from London Heathrow to John F Kennedy International, first class via Virgin Atlantic. Eames remembered that the flight attendants on Virgin Atlantic were fairly attractive. The postcard said Greetings from the Big Apple and on the back was an address: "Apartment 10, The Heights, 4th Avenue, Manhattan." Eames didn't recognise the handwriting, but it rang familiar.

He would go. He had to know. So he packed a small carry-on bag, packing The Hobbit and the picture. He would leave the mask, just in case the whole thing didn't work and he had to return. If he didn't have to return, he would send for it.

Eames contemplated what to wear on the flight, and decided on a three piece. Arthur would be proud, but he hadn't heard a word from Arthur since the money was deposited into his account.

He hated flying, but the first class Virgin Atlantic lounge served sushi and good sake, so Eames didn't mind too much. He even scheduled a foot massage for the flight, and flirted a little with one of the other businessmen in the lounge.

The flight was uneventful, the foot massage was glorious, and Eames stretched out and slept to classic rock nearly the whole way. He was woken up to a delicious full breakfast and a very pretty Irish flight attendant. "It seems Heaven has a little bit of work to do," he said, and the attendant, Mary, laughed.

"Seems so, sir," she replied.

"Thank you for flying Virgin Atlantic, Flight 268, non-stop from London to New York. The current time is eleven-oh-seven Eastern Standard Time, and the weather is gorgeous, a little chilly for an October day. We'd like to welcome you home, if New York is your final destination, and to those just visiting, enjoy your stay. My name is Eoghan and your co-pilot today was Sean."

There was a man with a sign saying Eames waiting for him once he cleared customs and walked out to the taxi stand. Eames walked over to him. "Well. I suppose you know where I'm going."

The man nodded and opened the door for him. Eames sank into the seat and watched as they made their way into Manhattan. He had only ever been to the city in dreams, but he felt like he knew it already. The driver didn't speak, and Eames didn't feel like much of a conversation. He kept turning the signet ring. He still hoped that Arthur had been the one to have given him these gifts, but he had let that wish die after the job.

The man stopped in front of the apartment building, and opened the door for him. Eames tipped the man, and the man thanked him, saying, "Enjoy your stay."

The Heights were a new complex of condominiums, and Eames counted twelve floors, which meant Apartment Ten was fairly high up. He looked at the buzzer for the apartment, but the only thing the label supplied was "A.L.Y". He buzzed, and the door opened pretty much automatically.

When he opened the door to the flat, he knew instantly whose it was. It was glorious, with high ceilings and all black furniture and appliances, and high bookshelves, books ordered by height and colour. There was someone sitting in a chair looking out the windows.

Arthur stood up. "Hello Mister Eames," he said. He was just in a shirt, un-tucked, and a pair of trousers. Eames dropped the bag and went straight for him.

"All of them?" he whispered, touching Arthur's shoulder, and Arthur nodded.

"I wouldn't be a very good point man if I didn't do my research," Arthur replied, his lips quirking gently, and Eames pressed his mouth to Arthur's, tugging him close.

**Author's Note:**

> written for the first round of [](https://dream-exchange.livejournal.com/profile)[**dream_exchange**](https://dream-exchange.livejournal.com/) for [](https://red-rahl.livejournal.com/profile)[**red_rahl**](https://red-rahl.livejournal.com/). originally posted [here](http://community.livejournal.com/dream_exchange/13286.html).


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